The Two Teacups
by HotCrossPigeon
Summary: There is a reason why John always insists that no dangerous chemicals be stored in the tableware. Sherlock learns this the hard way. Major Sherlock whump. Poisoning. Doctorly John. Fluff.
1. Chapter 1: The Poisoning

_Disclaimer: unfortunately these beautiful characters are not mine, but they are fun to play with.  
Hope you enjoy reading this :)  
…_

_The Two Tea Cups. _

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…

John was catching up on a few much-needed hours of sleep. He had decided to go to bed early, after the latest case had been solved. He ached from too many long nights racing around London with the Great Detective, and one particularly gruelling eight hour long stake out outside a chip shop in the murky drizzle on a cold January eve, which turned out to completely fruitless; Sherlock had finally deduced the murderer when they were back at Scotland yard looking through photographs, by realising his shirt had been buttoned up incorrectly.

In short, John was knackered, somewhat befuddled, and in dire need of a good kip.

He had murmured a goodbye to a very much still awake Sherlock Holmes, who was currently mixing god knows what in the kitchen, making odd puffs of smoke come out of the test tubes, and tutting at the reaction. John hadn't the time to wonder why on earth his flatmate wasn't going to bed, when he had even less sleep over the past week then John had. In fact, the detective probably hadn't slept at all, ignoring John's prodding that he get some shut-eye, instead drinking copious amounts of tea and sugary coffee until he was so wired that his hands began to shake.

John sighed. Whatever Sherlock was doing with that blasted chemistry set was obviously more important to him than rest was, and he'd leave the idiot to it for now; he was bound to wear himself out and John would find him, face pillowed on his long arms, snoring on the tabletop, in the morning.

At the moment John couldn't think of anything but his bed.

He had retreated upstairs, stumbled into some pyjama bottoms and an old t-shirt and collapsed into the duvet.

Then he had stuffed his head underneath his pillow for good measure, in case Sherlock decided to blow up the kitchen and wake him up - a precautionary measure he had adopted since living with the boisterous man - and drifted off within a matter of minutes.

It was a few hours later, and in his sleep he had pushed the pillow from his ears and snuggled up to it as if it were one of those girlfriends he could never seem to keep hold of. And as such, he managed to hear his phone buzz from its place on his bedside table. He had put it on silent, but the sound of it reverberating on the wood was actually pretty noisy in the quiet of his room.

It vibrated along the surface like a hovercraft along the plane of a body of water, and John cracked open an eye to glare at it.

The light from the phone illuminated the ceiling above his bedside table with an unnatural blue glow. It was much too bright. John groaned, hand flailing out to the side as he managed to knock the blasted thing onto the ground.

Oh, sod it. It probably wasn't important. He shoved his face into the pillow again, intent on going back to sleep.

He wondered when sleep had become such a luxury.

He knew exactly when, and the answer irritated him no end.

His phone buzzed again, insistently. And then for a third time. John speculated on who on earth would bother sending three messages in a row, in the middle of the night, when they could have just rung him if it was so bloody important. And then his sleepy mind realised that there was only one person who would do such a thing, and his texts were usually, if not _always_, quite important.

John sloped sideways over the bed, leaning over it and angling for the mobile, his hands brushing the carpet before finding the smooth edge of his phone. He checked the screen with bleary narrowed eyes. Three messages from Sherlock.

As if it would be anyone else.

_John, you are needed. – SH_

_Wake up, John – SH_

_I need you. – SH_

He managed to get his stiff fingers to cooperate and typed out a quick message in reply, closing one eye to better see the glowing screen.

_What have you done now? I'm trying to sleep. _

A few seconds passed, and his phone buzzed in his hand in reply.

_Oh good, you're awake. Need assistance - SH_

John sighed, drawing a hand over his face. He was in no mood to go gallivanting about with his deranged flatmate. He'd done his gallivanting for this week. They were supposed to have breaks between cases, he wasn't a bloody _superhero_, he needed life's little pleasures. Like _sleep_.

_Where are you? _He typed unenthusiastically, not wanting to leave the flat but feeling obliged to ask anyway, in case he needed to call Lestrade to go and collect the git. Knowing Sherlock, he could be anywhere. In the labyrinthine network of the London sewers, up a nearby lamppost, jumping between rooftops and sliding down the guttering like a fireman's pole, on a plane to Hawaii. The possibilities were endless. His phone buzzed.

_Flat. Meet me in the kitchen - SH_

Oh for Christ's sake.

"I'm just upstairs!" John called through the door, knowing that the detective had the ears of a bat and could definitely hear him in the rooms below. "You knew that already." He groused, beyond annoyed, flopping back into the pillows and drawing a heavy hand over his eyes. His phone buzzed, and he took a calming breath before glancing at the message.

_Kitchen. – SH_

John was amazed that he could even manage a reply with the way his fingers were jabbing irritably at the keypad._ If you need me so much, why don't you come up here? _

_Can't. Kitchen, John. Please. – SH_

John groaned. And after a minute of grumbling, he managed to heave himself out of bed, rubbing his face and trying to wake up properly. He hoped to God that the damn detective actually _did_ need him, and didn't simply want John to retrieve his notebook, make him a cup of tea, or send an email. To Sherlock, waking John up from much needed sleep was infinitely more favourable than having to do anything so mundane for himself.

John somehow made it down the stairs without falling over, pyjama bottoms rumpled from sleep and usual tidy crew cut mussed.

He opened the door to the living room and blinked owlishly at the flat. No sign of any disturbance, everything in its rightful, albeit slightly messy, place. So the detective hadn't been attacked or anything. Not that John thought he had. He better not have woken him for a bloody cup of tea. Again.

"Sherlock?" John called. "If you woke me up for no reason, I swear, I'll give Mycroft your skull." He loped inside, slamming the door a little too loudly and wincing; he hoped Mrs. Hudson hadn't heard that. Who knew what bloody time it was? The living room was dark, and shrouded in gloomy shadows, and the only light came from the adjoining kitchen. The windows showed the drizzly grey of early morning. _Very_ early morning.

_Sherlock, you tit._

John's annoyance flared up again as he stepped into the kitchen barefoot, intent on making himself a cup of tea, his insomniac flatmate be damned.

The flatmate in question was sitting upright in one of the kitchen chairs, and he seemed to have finished whatever experiment he had been doing. He looked tired and wrung out, and John wondered why the damn man hadn't just gone to bed when it was so obvious that he needed to sleep.

Sherlock's pale eyes flicked up to John's slightly scowling face. "Ah," he said, voice deep and rumbling. "You came. Good."

John resisted the urge to roll his eyes, and went straight to the kettle. "Well, usually when someone wakes someone up in the middle of the night, it's for something deathly important. So what did you want?" he managed to ask, somewhat angrily. He was always grumpy when he hadn't had enough sleep, and to be honest he wanted nothing more than to just crawl back into his duvet and snore until the sun was high.

But Sherlock said he needed him. Even though it didn't appear that way.

John opened the teabags and turned to face his flatmate with raised eyebrows, holding the box so hard that the cardboard crinkled under his fingers. "Well?" he spouted. "What is it? I was sleeping, as I'm sure you are aware. Haven't had so much as a nap since Thursday night, thanks to you. Now _what_ did you _want_?"

"John," the detective started calmly, lacing his slender fingers together on the tabletop. "I believe I may have inadvertently poisoned myself." And when John's face fell, he added, "It was an accident." As if that made everything fine.

John dropped the teabags with a small _flop_, coming forward in shock. Sherlock never did anything by accident. "Poison? Are you sure? What did you take?" he asked hurriedly, eyes scanning the kitchen for anything that looked particularly hazardous.

But, well, it was their _kitchen_. And most of it looked bloody hazardous. Those eyeballs in the biscuit tin for instance, they were well past rotten, and that odd purple gunk in the saucepan had been there for three weeks. Not to mention all the other miscellaneous decaying body parts strewn about the flat. And then there were the chemicals. John tried not to panic waiting for his oddly subdued flatmate to elaborate.

Sherlock looked down at two almost identical shabby mugs on the table top in front of him next to his slightly smoking chemistry set. "Yes. I'm sure," he croaked, a shaky hand going to his stomach, "there was a slight mix up; one of these contained that cup of tea you made me eight hours ago..."

"And the other?" John demanded.

"Well," Sherlock swallowed, beginning to look extremely pale, "I ran out of beakers."

John blanched. "I told you not to put dangerous chemicals in our tea mugs! What was in there?" he picked up the offending cup carefully sloshing the strange filmy liquid in the bottom of the cup. He hoped it hadn't been full before, because there was hardly any of the content left.

"Water," said Sherlock, "and Arsenic."

John nearly dropped the cup in alarm. "_Arsenic?_" He nearly shouted. "Sherlock – bloody _arsenic_?! What the hell were you doing playing with arsenic in the fucking kitchen? Jesus -" he would have tore his hair out, but his doctor's instincts kicked in and he grabbed his idiotic friend by the arm and practically dragged him into the living room, sat him on the sofa and rang for an ambulance.

"It was an experiment." He heard Sherlock say in the background, as the phone rang dully in his ear. "Besides, anything is a poison in certain quantities -"

"Shut up!" the phone line picked up on the other end, "Oh - Yes, I need an ambulance. 221b Baker Street. My flatmate's poisoned himself -"

Sherlock huffed indignantly from the sofa cushions. "You make it sound like it was _my_ fault. You were the one who made me tea in a similar looking mug."

John hung up, his face ashen with worry, but his hands completely steady as they shoved the phone back into his pocket and his mind went a mile a minute trying to remember what the best course of action was when dealing with poisoning. "Don't try and blame this on me, Sherlock." He muttered tiredly. The ambulance was on its way. He had to make the detective comfortable, slow his breathing. The bloody man had nearly given him a heart attack. Arsenic of all the bloody _stupid_ things.

"John," said Sherlock quietly. His forehead was creased and his breathing faster than usual, and it made John;s heart flip a little in his chest, because Sherlock rarely allowed himself to look so vulnerable. He was sitting forward on the sofa with his arms on his knees. "I don't feel too well." He said.

"Of course you bloody don't!" John found himself yelling, "You've just _poisoned_ yourself!"

Sherlock blinked up at him in surprise. "You're angry." He noted.

"Yes. _Yes_, Sherlock, I'm angry."

"Oh." Said the detective, looking a little put out by this turn of events. As if he had just expected John to react calmly upon finding out his best friend had just poisoned himself via his own lack of common sense, and was now trying to deduce what on earth had made the other man so upset.

John ran a hand through his hair, and then pinched the bridge of his nose exasperatedly. "I'm worried." He bit out. "You idiot."

That was an understatement. He was more than worried. Acute arsenic poisoning led to coma and then death. He didn't even know how much his friend had even consumed. Sherlock was never very forthcoming on the topic of his own wellbeing, and to him, being poisoned was just a minor inconvenience to be dealt with the way he dealt with everything involving his 'transport'. Haphazardly, and when that didn't work, he would call John to figure it out.

"Sherlock how much did you drink? And how long ago?"

The detective was hunched over his stomach, the trembles visible now. His voice was deep though, and with an edge of irritation. "Stop making such a fuss, John. Arsenic poisoning is hardly fatal after only a few minutes. It could take days for my vital organs to shut down, despite the high dosage." He opened his mouth to say more, but it turned into a soft exhale that could have been a groan, his hands tightened over his stomach.

That was it. John heaved the detective upright. Which Sherlock protested at abominably, batting away John's hands as though he were merely a passing annoyance and would let go if Sherlock complained enough.

"Stop touching me." he groused.

"_Sherlock_, I'm a bloody doctor! Come on, you can try and throw up whatever you ingested - if it's only been a few minutes, we might be lucky and all of the poison won't have been absorbed into your bloodstream yet."

"You just moved me in here. It's hardly fair to keep flinging me about the place in my condition."

"Sherlock -"

"I regret texting you. Go back to bed."

"I moved you in here, yes, but that was before I knew you'd taken a 'high dosage' – bathroom. Now."

"I don't want to."

"You should have thought about that before you downed a cup of sodding _arsenic_!"

They staggered their way to the bathroom like a pair of drunks and John shouldered open the door, attempting to steer Sherlock into the small tiled room without the detective falling over.

Sherlock dutifully sat in a huddle by the toilet, looking thoroughly miserable and feeling rather sorry for himself. He didn't throw up, but his mouth opened a couple of times in soft gasps that echoed around the tiles, an he lay his head on the porcelain rim as if enjoying the cool feel of it against his skin. "John," he said, a curious expression flitting across his pale features. "My mouth tastes of garlic."

John put his face in his hands.

Luckily the ambulance arrived not two minutes later - Mycroft's doing no doubt - and Sherlock was carted off with John in tow, who explained the ridiculous situation to the confused paramedics, clutching the arsenic-tainted cup in a clenched fist in case they needed samples. Sherlock complained loudly about their mode of transport and the incompetence of their care, arguing that a simple taxi would have been more efficient, and significantly less bumpy, and furthermore he abhorred being manhandled in such a way, and then he had promptly vomited all over one of the paramedics.

He had shut up soon after that.

They had put an oxygen mask over his face as a precaution and it steamed up with the fog of his uneven breaths. He closed his eyes, and sweat beaded on his pale forehead beneath the bedraggled dark curls. John had never felt more worried and infuriated in his whole life.

The stupid, _stupid_ man.

It would be just like him to up and die because of a dim-witted mistake he'd made when he was too tired to be messing about with his chemistry set – not in the heat of combat, not in a furious battle of wits with a vicious psycho-killer, but because his own idiocy caused him to disregard what any normal person would have known. Don't put hazardous, poisonous things in nearby tea cups. It was bloody _simple_! And especially don't put them in tea cups next to other tea cups that were filled with bloody tea.

John despaired.

…

…

_I may post a small fluffy ending to this, depending what people think :) Ta for reading - HCP_


	2. Chapter 2: Of Lessons Learned

_I thank you, most humbly, for the reviews and follows! I have quite a few Sherlock stories that are half-written and stagnating on my laptop, so please let me know which ones you'd like to see next by voting on the poll on my profile page. Here is the aforementioned fluff for your enjoyment. Also, spot the Princess Bride reference. ;)  
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_Chapter 2: Of Lessons Learned  
_

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Luckily, Sherlock lived. And rather annoyingly, he had been right about the stages of acute arsenic poisoning, and the amount poison he had unwittingly consumed had not been enough to kill him within only a few hours. _Days_ perhaps, but then that was the reason he had called John downstairs and had him deal with the whole annoying fiasco.

John had given one of the nurses the contaminated cup he had been holding for swabbing, and his hands felt oddly absent without the smooth rounded china in his grasp. He thought a few times about holding the limp hand that lay on the bedcovers instead, just to have something to do with his twitching fingers, but he knew that the action would be completely unappreciated by the owner of said hand, and would probably be viewed as abhorrent and even outright repulsive, maybe warranting a day of abandonment, or a night of screeching violin-playing, as payback for inflicting such vile sentimentality upon his person.

So John settled for putting his hands under his armpits instead.

He leaned forward a little in the hospital chair, blinking owlishly to try and keep himself awake. He was bone-tired. There was a blanket draped around his shoulders and he wasn't quite sure who had put it there. One of the hospital staff no doubt, though he didn't remember when it had happened, he was eternally grateful for the small amount of warmth it provided. He had run out of the flat and into the waiting ambulance in naught but his pyjama bottoms and t-shirt.

He was well aware that he probably looked bloody barmy, but at the moment, he honestly didn't care.

The hospital was awash with rhythmic beeping and voices and shuffling as the morning shift began, and the patients began to awaken. John could hear the wobbly wheels of a breakfast trolley ticker through the corridor and past the doorway behind which he sat, and the odd mingling smell of inedible hospital food wafted between the clinical scents of medicine and bleach.

Sherlock was hooked up to a blood-filtering machine, and his stats looked pretty good for someone who had just nearly killed himself.

He didn't look as pale as before, and John was relieved to see the soft breaths of colour returning to his friend's pallid cheeks. When Sherlock had abruptly lost consciousness in the ambulance, the damned man had definitely knocked a good couple of years off John's lifespan.

Jesus, his flatmate really was an idiot sometimes. He took so much looking after.

At least it hadn't been a suicide attempt. John didn't know if he could handle another of Sherlock's infamous danger nights. They were rare and fleeting and terrifying.

But this hadn't been one, and so he wouldn't dwell on it.

John scrubbed a hand over his face, and cracked a jaw-splitting yawn. It was morning, full-on morning; eight o'clock by his watch. He should probably stay awake now, there was no point in going back to sleep at this hour. He should wait for Sherlock to grumble himself into the waking world, blinking his grey eyes and then rolling them when he noticed that John was at his bedside, and he instantly worked out that John had maintained his position there all night.

He would call John an interfering mother hen. Tell him that his concern was unwarranted and a hospital visit had not been required, surely John had had the means to un-poisoning him back at the flat, and if not he should have procured it from somewhere before resorting to bringing him to his hideous establishment where old people came to die and healthy people came to catch diseases from unhealthy people.

And then John would shout at him. And he would enjoy shouting at him, because Sherlock bloody well deserved it.

And he would possibly get thrown out by a passing nurse for disrupting the ward. But the shouting would make John feel better for harbouring the bad back he had now, thanks to the bowed rear of the chair he had inhabited for the past few hours. And the shouting would also put him under the hopeful delusion that Sherlock would learn from this, and know not to inadvertently poison himself again.

John should stay awake. He should shout.

His eyelids began to droop, and the cover on Sherlock's bed looked a rather inviting place to lay his head.

…

After the 'tedious Hemodialysis' as Sherlock grumpily put it, the detective was 'resting', more like imprisoned, in a white hospital bed with itchy starchy sheets and growling to himself about not being allowed out of the hospital.

One of Mycroft's hired goons was currently patrolling the corridor outside, poorly disguised as a particularly burly nurse; no doubt his presence was supposed to be a deterrent, and while this normally wouldn't have been enough to impede his escape, Sherlock found himself struggling to stay upright for long enough to leg it out of the room, let alone outwit anyone he came across.

Not that it would take much to outwit that meathead. Merely reciting the alphabet to him would have the idiot scratching his head. Sherlock grumbled, huffing out a breath so that one curled lock of damp dark hair wafted up in front of his face, buoyed by the indignant breath.

No. He was stuck here, and was somehow finding himself blaming John for the bulk of his misery. John had brought him here after all. And now he was keeping him in place, albeit, unknowingly.

John had fallen asleep, half in the uncomfortable grey plastic visitor's chair beside the bed, his head resting on Sherlock's bedcovers and one hand flung out awkwardly across the detective's knees. Effectively, trapping the detective in place. It was much more efficient than a handcuff would have been, Sherlock had to admit. He could probably slide out, if he was very careful, but then he might awaken John and have to suffer his wrath. It was much more daunting than picking a handcuff lock, or practicing his Houdini skills with other hospital restraints they had used on him in the past.

Sherlock twitched his fingers irritably, wondering what to do. No one had ever sat so vigilantly by his bedside before. It unnerved him.

He didn't know what to do, so for once, he did nothing.

Sherlock didn't move the offending arm, and when Mycroft had pointed it out with a small smirk, leaning on his umbrella and raising his eyebrows at the sentimentality of such a thing, Sherlock had argued hotly that he hadn't wanted to touch it and possibly encourage or upset the doctor further, not that it was any of Mycroft's business. And what was he even doing here, anyway? Would he kindly - "_Get out!" _Sherlock hissed through his teeth.

"As you wish." Mycroft said softly, amicably. His eyes held a hint of warning though, as they always did whenever Sherlock got himself into a situation that could have been avoided if he had only had the foresight.

Sherlock hated that look. It was full of smug superiority, and reminded him of when they were younger, and Sherlock had taken to climbing the trees of their old garden. He had broken his arm because of a slight miscalculation of the height of the next branch and the one he was currently occupying. He hadn't fallen, really. He'd meant to jump, and had certainly not been startled by a nearby blackbird. But Mycroft had insisted that he had, and Mother had believed him. Because Mycroft was evil and cunning and manipulative and Sherlock wished he would leave because his mere presence somehow managed to ruin absolutely everything.

"Though do let the good doctor take care of you…" Mycroft continued, "Seeing as you are incapable of looking after yourself."

Sherlock, not wanting to shout because that might awaken the snoring doctor - not because he cared, but because John would be more annoying awake than asleep and would no doubt give him a berating for being so careless with his casual misplacement of poisons - had reached around and thrown a pillow straight at his elder brother's face.

Mycroft hadn't managed to dodge it in time, the aim was true despite Sherlock's shaking fingers, but he brought his umbrella up in a clean arc and batted the pillow aside in a swift repartee. The elder Holmes was never very good at sports, but he had excelled at fencing. It was just his sort of uppity rule-based non-exercise that he enjoyed. Sherlock made a rather rude gesture with his fingers because he was feeling childish and no one could quite piss him off as much as Mycroft could.

Mycroft stepped lightly out of his room, still smiling, and Sherlock could hear his expensive shoes tapping on the floor of the hallway before the door swung shut and muffled their steady retreat.

Sherlock had procured his laptop from a distraught and sniffling Mrs. Hudson, before waving the woman off with assurances of his _fine_-ness and insistence that she would wake up John with all her inane blubbering if she tarried any longer. And besides which, he needed her to keep an eye on the experiments he had neglected in the kitchen lest they eat through the floorboards. She had quickly headed back to the flat at that, hoping to save her ceiling from falling down.

Sherlock grinned, vampirishly.

His face was lit up with the glow of the computer screen as he flicked idly through the webpages and it may have been the light which finally roused the good doctor from his slumber.

John woke up with a half-snore, sitting abruptly upright before blinking a few times, remembering where he was, and clearing his throat.

He noticed Sherlock and instantly became more awake, back straightening with military precision. "What are you doing?" He asked, his voice gravelly from sleep, but still ringing with the authority of a trained army medic. "You're supposed to be resting."

"Yes, well. You were doing more than enough of that for the two of us, John." Sherlock muttered distractedly. He looked up for a moment, taking in the worried, tired countenance of his only true friend in the world, and felt an odd coiling in his stomach that had nothing to do with the recently ingested poison. John always made him feel odd. It wasn't entirely unpleasant. "I'm ordering some new beakers; we never seem to have enough of them in the kitchen."

John gave him a small smile that twitched the corners of his lips. He had rightly supposed that was all the apology Sherlock was going to give him. Well, Sherlock was still adamant that it hadn't been entirely his fault, though perhaps he would indeed store poisons differently in future experiments, if only to save himself from a tedious stay at the hospital.

The buying of new equipment was a necessary compromise of sorts, and one that wasn't too far a stretch of his abilities to undertake. Sherlock hadn't learned that he could be wrong, but only that John could, sometimes, be right.

He was amazed that his flatmate hadn't just bellowed at him for being an idiot, but then, he was still quite lethargic. The shorter man was blinking far too much, movements uncoordinated, and cheek sporting the creased imprint of the blanket he'd slept on.

"Go back to sleep John." Sherlock said.

The good doctor folded his arms, leaning back in that ghastly hospital chair with a little squeak as the legs shifted on the tiles. He sighed through his nose, as he was prone to do when both tired and perturbed by something. "Only if you do." He said, blue eyes holding Sherlock's with familiar defiance.

Sherlock pressed his lips into an irritated line. A ridiculous proposition. He wasn't tired, honestly. The website had not been flickering oddly in front of his eyes at all. His thoughts were certainly not trudging through his brain as though it his synapses were made of fudge. Not in the slightest. But John needed the sleep, otherwise he would be even grumpier, and a grumpier John often led to a grumpier Sherlock.  
Self-interest demanded he look after his flatmate to look after himself.

It was only logical.

Decision made, Sherlock clicked the laptop shut and tossed it haphazardly to the side, punching the remaining pillow – his other still on the floor from when he had inadvertently flung it at Mycroft – and shimmying into a more comfortable position. He did his best to ignore John's slightly shocked expression at his request for sleep being granted.

"You haven't shouted at me." Sherlock told John once he was settled, his eyebrows raising in slight query. It wasn't that he particularly wanted to be shouted at, but he had been expecting the outcome, and its lack of an appearance was a little worrisome. Any break in his deductive reasoning was cause for concern. Perhaps he had simply misjudged John's fondness for him.

"No." said John, a yawn cutting him off halfway through the word. He was still in his pyjamas, and someone had given him a well-worn hospital blanket, which he snuggled into, trying to find a comfy position on the oddly angular seat and failing.

Sherlock regarded him quietly, curiously, reclined as he was in the bed covers. "Why not?" he asked.

John scooted his chair forward, and took up his previous stance, elbows crossed on the covers, head resting on them. He was to the left of Sherlock's legs, far away enough to not be too intrusive.

Not that Sherlock minded. He surprised himself by how much he didn't mind the doctor's continued presence at his side. After all, he had thrown his own brother out within a few scarce seconds of him stepping into the room. But then again, Mycroft's company was purely abysmal.

John's was… not.

"You're still sick, Sherlock." John mumbled into the covers. "And I'm tired. I'll shout at you later. Promise."

"Oh." Said Sherlock, burying his head into his pillow and inhaling the odd clinical scent there. It was oddly comforting, the smell of chemicals, and the warmth of his only friend nearby. Not entirely unpleasant at all. His eyes slipped shut, and so did John's. "Good." He said.

…

…

_The End. _


End file.
